“No, sir.”
“Or anything at all that is whitewashed?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Carrados raised the scrap of tissue paper to his nose again, and for the second time he touched it with his tongue.
“Very interesting, Parkinson,” he remarked, and Parkinson’s responsive “Yes, sir” was a model of discreet acquiescence.
“I am sorry that I had to leave you,” said Miss Whitmarsh, returning, “but Mrs Lawrence is out and my father made a practice of offering everyone refreshment.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Carrados. “We have not been idle. I came from London to pick up a scrap of paper, lying on the floor of this room. Well, here it is.” He rolled the tissue into a pellet again and held it before her eyes.
“The wad!” she exclaimed eagerly. “Oh, that proves that I was right?”
“Scarcely ‘proves,’ Miss Whitmarsh.”
“But it shows that one of the shots was a blank charge, as you suggested this morning might have been the case.”